


Those Cute Little Defenses

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Smut, Love Confessions, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Prompt Fic, Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Virgin Steve Rogers, dame judi dench makes an appearance, eff canon, just saying, tropey trope trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt from Ice326 (see below), in which Steve and Natasha have just started dating/having sex and Natasha asks Steve what his fantasy is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shake and Weight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ice326](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice326/gifts).



> I don't know how, but this is probably going to be a few chapters. (2-3?). Show me in the rules where it says "prompt has to be a one-shot". Un'beta'd. Because I don't have patience to beta my smut letsbereal.

**Based on[this prompt](http://sleepanddrinkdietcoke.tumblr.com/post/116535777399/ice326-sleepanddrinkdietcoke-ice326), which was super challenging but also amazing.**

 

**1**

 

They’d been doing _something_ (she didn’t define it and he didn’t dare push for an answer), for a month or so when she asked.

“What’s on your sexual bucket list?”

Steve and Natasha had been sitting together on the sofa in the lounge watching an informercial for a vibrating dumbbell that looked downright dirty. She’d had her head in his lap when it came on, which hadn’t helped things at all. So when a perky actress in a yellow tank top came on and demonstrated how six minutes gripping the weight in such a way that had him blushing from head to toe would make anyone's biceps lean and strong, he nearly had to throw Natasha off or she’d see right through him.

“Is it the exercise equipment or the workout gear that’s got you all hot and bothered?” she looked up at him, a hand casually brushing his lap as though she meant nothing by it at all when he knew she knew exactly what she was doing.

“It’s nothing. Don’t you think this is a little over the top for a television commercial though?” He asked, crossing his legs. They were at this awkward limbo stage. Steve considered Natasha a colleague and a teammate, but only more so because she was his partner. Not only had she gotten him out of trouble more than a few times but they worked as though they’d known each other for years longer than they had. As though she was his right hand (and he hers), a second pair of eyes that knew when to duck or how to move. When they fought side by side, it was like a goddamn ballet. Per her file, he wasn’t sure why he was surprised.

And because they’d save each other and probably because they’d literally shared meals (two forks, one takeout container), they were friends. Contrary to public persona, Natasha could be both fun and funny. Underneath all of the old man jokes and sarcasm, she was also incredibly silly and a little sweet. He could spend hours with her, just playing that one Spanish card game in her apartment with the wild cards and the crazy rules about drawing four and saying one at the end. (They were both competitive but part of the fun had been to figure out when she was cheating and to figure out the tells she gave when she had a good hand).

Card games and battle wounds aside, they were also (most recent development) lovers. The thought of it made his face burn and his stomach lurch into his throat. Something that had started after hours of playing cards, during a disagreement over whether or not it was in the rules to draw three cards if you forgot to say _Uno_ at the end.

_“Quit trying to cheat, Rogers.” She had slammed her card on the table._

_“Me? I read the rules, Natasha. You didn’t say Uno. You have to draw,” he countered, reaching for the box that sat on the coffee table next to them. They’d started the game on the sofa but were now wedged between the table and the furniture, him feeling slightly more cramped than he imagined she was, but decidedly uncaring because it allowed him to keep a closer eye on any cards she might pull out of her sleeve._

_“Really? How? This is a Spanish game, Steve.” She raised an eyebrow._

_“The instructions are in English.” He wrinkled his forehead, not wanting to back down. “So draw your cards.”_

_She huffed and started to reach for the pile in the middle but stopped, instead looking up, a glint in her eye that made him shiver._

_“Why don’t we settle this like gentlemen?” She asked, leaning forward so that she was very much in his personal space and he could very much see the flesh-toned bra she had on underneath her tank top._

_He probably took a second too long to answer, his mind still stuck on how round her breasts were in that small piece of silk. The second he spared to look caused him enough Catholic guilt that he was sure his mother was shaking her head from heaven, but he managed to take a deep breath and meet her eyes._

_“Natasha, take the cards. Don’t think you can get out of this by using those tricks on me…” he said it as soberly and as straightfaced as he could, hoping she couldn’t hear the dryness in his throat. It wasn’t that he didn’t hear the innuendo, but rather that he felt a little disappointed she still thought it would work on him._

_“Steve, I’m not picking up those cards,” she explained, shifting so that she was on her hands and knees, moving across the pile. “And you are not going to make me.”_

_He rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to remind her that he didn’t have to play with her, but he was quieted by her lips on his. Sitting trapped against a couch and a table in such a way that he was sure his legs had already fallen asleep an hour ago, one hand squeezing a plastic playing card so hard he could feel it bite into his palm, and the other hand grasping dumbly for something to do- this was not how he imagined his first kiss with Natasha Romanoff._

_(If he was honest, yes he did have a few scenarios, each taking place after he’d had the courage to ask her out on several dates to places like the cinema and Coney Island. Definitely with her permission. And definitely standing up.)_

_Instead, he found himself utterly lame, as if his entire brain centered around those lips. She tasted like the popcorn they’d been grazing on. He wanted to pull her into his lap, to kiss her with the force of all that he’d held back since the first day he’d been introduced to her, to kiss her like in the movies. But it wasn’t professional and she was, after all, definitely trying to cheat…_

_“Steve, stop thinking.” She whispered, and as if reading his mind, grabbed his hands, tossing the cards aside. He looked over at the mess of cards, the game pretty much over, and she steered his gaze back to hers with a finger._

_“Seriously. Stop thinking. You think too hard. It’s not a big deal.” She said slowly, as if negotiating, before kissing him again, this time tickling his bottom lip with her tongue in such a way that he had to instinctively open his mouth. Good lord if her tongue didn’t take that opening and then he was a lost cause, feeling very much unlike a gentleman as he kissed her back. She hummed in appreciation and he figured he was doing something right._

_They kissed the way they fought together when on assignment, everything as if on reflex, as if one could anticipate the other, utterly attuned._

_She broke the kiss and he got the chance to appreciate her as she caught her breath, her own face flushed in a way he didn’t think was possible._

_“Natasha. You win, ok?” he sighed, his lips feeling sore. She laughed, touching her own lips with her fingertips._

_And then Natasha_ was _climbing into his lap, something so light putting what felt like tons of pressure over his body and all he could do was pray that he wouldn’t embarrass himself because he was getting to make out with the Black Widow._

_“Steve,” she held his chin in her hand, “you are going to want to pay attention to this. And it’s going to be amazing. And you are not going to break me or offend me.”_

_All he could manage was an “uh”, which was probably safer than the colorful swears that came to mind when she lifted her shirt off and threw it on the couch._

_“Natasha…” he stuttered because she was doing the most amazing things with her hips, simulating things he had definitely never dreamed she would do until after he’d taken her on several of those fantasy dates and kissed her many many times, and probably not until after whatever people do when they go steady in the 21 st century…_

_“Do you want to stop?” she asked, grabbing one of his hands in hers. She’d mercifully stopped undulating, something his mind thanked her for but for which only made his cock ache more. He knew, when he looked at her, that he was coming off as uninterested and he knew she’d understand if he pulled on the breaks. He followed the trail from her eyes down to her lips, to her throat, to her collarbone to the part where her bra-covered breasts met…_

_“I just don’t want to take advantage.” He said, in a voice weaker than he would have preferred._

_“Steve,” she kissed the hand she’d been holding. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t want it.”_

_“You are a damn cheater,” he croaked. Natasha winked and slid one of his fingers into her mouth, an answer to the accusation that might have been as much an admission as anything. His hips pushed up, not that he could help it, and he let out a low groan because he was sure he was going to die. Death by hot and wet and gentle sucking on his pointer. There are worse ways._

_“Now, are you going to participate?” she asked, leading his hand to her breasts. He nodded._

_“Good.” She pulled him towards her like they were on a teeter-totter, leaning back so that suddenly he was above her and they were laying on the floor._

_Before every move, he made sure to look up, to make sure it was still right. He’d been around long enough to know the mechanics, seen it done way before the internet made it as easy to find as the weather. She responded with the nods and kisses, themselves a barometer for when he was in the right spot. Kissing the tops of her breasts earned him a peck, kissing her stomach earned him tongue._

_“Alright, Captain,” she whispered in between kisses, her fingers working at the buttons to his pants._

_“Should we look for protection?” he asked, a hand caressing her thigh._

_“I can’t get pregnant and you can’t get sick so I think we are ok.” She shrugged, her hand going below the belt of his underwear. At first he didn’t know what to expect because this was farther than he had ever let anyone go, the feeling of her palm against his dick something soft and warm, He paused from any movement to look down, watching as she pulled him out, spit into her palm before returning to stroke him. She worked him expertly, though it wasn’t as though he needed much more preparation, sliding his foreskin down so that her thumb could slide over the tip. How did she know? How did she know how much pressure and stroking and…_

_“Natasha, I’mgoingtofinishifwedon’tdosomethingelsenow” he whimpered, burying his head in her shoulder._

_“Don’t you dare,” she warned him before letting him go to pull her pants down._

_“Ok,” he nodded, trying to distract himself as best as he could. Baseball. Tony’s goatee. Grocery list. Milk, eggs, round, wet…_

_“Steve,” she arched up to kiss him present, wrapping her legs around him “green light means go.”_

_“Go?” he asked, positioned at her entrance. She nodded, biting her lip._

_“Go. Now,” she ordered, bucking her hips into him._

_Steve took in a deep breath because he wasn’t really sure what to expect. Something tight and slippery and warm, hitting every single nerve on his cock in a way that made him see little sparks of light behind his eyelids. He supposed he thought it might hurt the first time, though he wasn’t sure where he’d gotten that idea, and he had always worried that he might not know how._

_Both ideas were blown into the water._

_“Don’t finish yet, Rogers,” she said, as an order and a beg, when he found pace with her. And that was the other thing that surprised him, that so much of sex was two people actively working together versus the image in his mind of doing all the work by himself. She led him, steering him with kisses and towards the end her nails into his ass, pushing into him as much as he was into her. And the longer they lay together, connected through cartilage and muscle and nerves, the wetter she got._

_“Now?” he pleaded, the pressure in his balls painful. She nodded, breathless, before reaching between them, adding pressure to that tiny spot at the top of her cunt, her fingers forming scissors around him. He held on long enough for one more thrust before losing everything, possibly including his mind because he felt like he was melting into her._

_“I have uno cards stuck to my back,” she whispered minutes later, when he’d built up the energy to lift his head from her shoulder._

_“I will never play that game with you ever again,” he mumbled into her skin, licking the salt off her collarbone._

_***_

Steve’s natural inclination was to treat that experience as an isolated one, a ploy that worked. Except that the next day she was at his apartment and they were in his bed doing it all over again. And then it became a routine, something they didn’t talk about but that they mutually seemed to agree on as a good idea. He’d get a text from her at the odd hour when she was due to arrive home from a mission, a signal to wake up, straighten the place, and brush his teeth. And then she’d be there, lips and tongue and arms and skin, attacking him as soon as he opened the door (which they had nearly forgotten to close once).

Other times it would be a glance, communication between either of them during a meeting or a team event, a telepathic message from one to the other that they would be meeting up later that night.

And sometimes, like this particular night of binge-watching commercials for unnecessary products, it was innocent and sweet, almost as if they were dating. Steve wondered if he liked these nights best, when they were touching without thinking, without the fever and the urgency, as though her head belonged on his lap and his hands were created to run fingerstrokes through her copper-colored hair.

“Steve, your sexual bucket list. Everyone has one.” She asked, sitting up.

“What does that even mean?” he pretended he didn’t know what she was asking because he didn’t really know if he could talk about those kinds of things out loud.

“Well, you seem to have a thing for whatever it is we are watching right now,” she smirked, pulling one knee up to her chest. “And you are definitely one hundred-percent man, so I’m guessing you have some fantasies up there.”

“Is this a trick question?” he blanched, a portion of anxiety developing in his chest.

“What is it, Rogers?” she asked, stretching her leg so that her foot brushed against his crotch. He jumped, grabbing her foot but not moving it.

“You, Natasha. You are my fantasy,” he met her eye.

“Liar,” she pushed the ball of her foot against him, and dammit if his cock wasn’t straining against her as if it had a mind of its own. “Tell me.”

He racked his brain for any kind of answer that would work. She really was everything he wanted, though he was certain she was looking for the uncharted territory that they both knew existed.

“What is it?” She asked again, her toes flexing against him. He leaned back for a minute, catching his breath because he was sure he’d tell her whatever she wanted to hear if she kept it up.

“Really it’s you,” he protested, overwhelmed with the pressure.

“And what else? Do you want me to break out whips and handcuffs? Should I look for a third person to join the party?”

“No, just you, Natasha,” he sighed, running his hand up her leg, pulling her against him.

She narrowed her eyes and he knew she was trying to think of the best way to interrogate him. He decided to end the discussion, reaching under her skirt to run a finger along the lips of her cunt. No underwear. _An established routine, indeed._ She closed her eyes and arched into him, and for a second he felt like he had the (literal) upper hand.

“I am not going to let this go, Steve," she said as she laced her fingers in his, working with him as he stroked her.

“Natasha,” he dipped a finger inside her, proud that he’d figured out exactly how to turn the tables. “This. I just like this. I like being a regular guy with his girl, as if the whole world doesn’t know who we are and nothing matters except being with you, making love to you, watching you come and imagining that you are enjoying me as Steve Rogers who grew up in Brooklyn and who used to play stickball in the street and help his Ma hang laundry out on Sundays.”

She shifted so that she was straddling him, her arms draped around his neck, her face soft and eyes wide. “That is without a doubt the sweetest thing anyone has ever said while fingerfucking me.”

He laughed and kissed her, reaching to unzip his pants because he needed to be inside her more than he needed air. “So discussion over, ok?”

She tugged at his lip with her teeth. “You want to be just regular Steve with his girl, hmmm…”

“Normal would be amazing,” he nodded, holding his breath as she aligned herself and guided him inside.

“This is definitely not over,” she said smugly. It felt like her entire body held him like a vice and he nodded, suddenly not caring because all he wanted at that moment was to stay in the warmth of her walls forever.

“You trust me, right?” she asked later when they were both coming down from their high and able to form complete sentences again.

“I do,” he said with hesitation, unsure of where the discussion would go.

She folded her hands together and raised an eyebrow, a look that was simultaneously erotic and frightening.

“Good. Because we are going to have a lot of fun with this one.”

He had no idea what that even meant but he had learned through trial and error to let her lead.


	2. Dame Judi Dench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *finalllyyyyyyyyyyy* Thanks to all for the patience :)
> 
> so. this chapter. some risks were taken. I hope it's well-received :) Everything here is what I had in mind when I said 2-3 so I'm not holding out, I promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written largely before the cap 2 photos hit tumblr

**2**

In hindsight, Steve should have known something was up when Natasha insisted they go out for dinner and a movie. The scenario reeked of _traditional,_ something that Natasha was definitely not. If they defined anything as a “date”, it was one of their quiet nights in, watching whatever movie happened to be on.

When she pulled up to the curb in front of his apartment, he should have guessed that “date night” was a ruse for a bigger plan. But he was so busy thinking about what it meant that Natasha had asked him to go to dinner and a movie and if that meant that they should have “the talk” about whether or not they were actually a thing that he skipped over some of the logic. Much more concerned with whether or not his shirt was wrinkled or how his breath smelled, he missed some of the little tells.

“You ready?” she raised an eyebrow and pushed the button to unlock the doors.

“Ma’am,” he nodded and slid in, suddenly wishing he’d brought her flowers or something. She’d let her hair down in the wavy curls he loved running his fingers through, and he noticed that she had gone for an uncharacteristically soft look. One of the first clues he should have caught was that Natasha had picked him up in a pale pink sweater(second only to the white skirt he didn’t realize she was wearing until five minutes later when he caught a glimpse of bare legs underneath the steering wheel). Master assassins do not wear the same color assigned to newborn baby girls, as an unspoken rule.

“Where are we going?” he asked as he buckled his seatbelt. She turned the radio on, something mellow and jazzy competing with the hum of the Corvette’s engine.

“Just thought we’d break up the monotony,” she looked over and smiled, not entirely answering his question. Another clue, a small indicator that she was hiding something or planning something and expecting him to hear what he wanted to hear.

They navigated through traffic in silence, affording him the chance to mentally rehearse what he might say if she did open the door for discussion on the boundaries and labels of their relationship. He didn’t want to press her, because he was grateful for whatever she felt safe enough to give him. “Friends with benefits” wasn’t anything new, even if it was more open and obvious in 2015.

When she fell off the grid for a mission or when he watched her sashay and wink at her next victim (everyone from pirates to the Starbucks barista), Steve took a deep breath and reminded himself that they were nothing official. She knew him more than anyone else, knew when he needed to be alone and when he needed company, knew that he hated throwing things away and that he hadn’t used his microwave once, not even for popcorn because the stovetop kind tastes better anyway.

Which was just as well, because Steve had picked up on some of her small little quirks too (like the collection of postcards she kept in her underwear drawer or the need to take even the smallest bit of leftover food home in a to-go box because she also hated tossing certain things out).

They were nothing official and yet she knew more about him than anyone else, possibly more than his own mother or Bucky because of the different facets of their relationship. He wasn’t sure what to make of that, except that clearing up the muddy nature of their dyad left him excited and nervous.

They ended up at a small, discount cinema in one of the quieter areas of town. Quiet like one of those areas where the labor lives when they get off work, everything more or less clean but older, less electric, more spread out.

“Ready?” she asked as she turned her keys to the off position.

“Sure, but…” he started, looking around.

“But?”

“But why are we not in the city? We could probably have even walked to dinner and a movie.”

Natasha unbuckled her seatbelt, her eyes meeting his with her own curious look. “Do you remember telling me once that you just wanted some normality? Just Steve Rogers from Brooklyn with his girl?”

Steve unbuckled his own seatbelt and shifted so that his back was against the doorframe. “Yeah, I remember. But I don’t get how this…”

“Well,” she shrugged, “people know us, and especially you, wherever we go. It’s an occupational hazard. But maybe a little less so out here. I thought we could just find a hole in the wall place for dinner, see a movie that’s been out so long that we’re the only ones in the theater. Pretend to be just Steve and Natasha out for dinner and a movie?”

She was as earnest as he’d ever seen her and he wondered if maybe she really was going to say something about being more than just partners who exchanged bodily fluids on a regular basis.

Steve wasn’t sure how to respond, certain that there was a catch in there somewhere. When she looped her arm through his, something of a bounce in her step, he looked at her with an extra measure of suspicion.

At the box office, they stared at the list of titles. He didn’t really care what they saw. He’d always enjoyed movies, across genres (except for ones about the war because those were a little too real).

“This one,” she pointed to the poster of an elderly lady serving tea while smiling smugly.

“Are you sure?” he tipped his head, silent warning bells going off. Because while he was game for anything, he knew that Natasha had a small threshold for films involving old British ladies who rediscovered themselves while snickering about masturbation and lilies.

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be really good,” she nodded. “It has Dame Judi Dench. She’s a legend.”

“I know but I also know that you prefer her in a Bond film, Natasha…” he studied her face, looking for a twitch or sign of deception. It was futile, catching the Black Widow in a lie, and he resigned himself to pulling out his wallet for some cash.

He decided not to say something funny about the cost of inflation as they stood in line for popcorn, largely distracted by the curve of her ass in that skirt and the way those strappy heels made her legs seem even longer than normal. Some of the best sex they’d ever had was with those legs wrapped around his waist, the sharp points of those shoes digging into his back, neither speaking because both were too angry/impatient/focused… He wondered if she’d laugh at him if he told her to keep them on the next time they went to bed together.

Steve shook his head of the thought and handed her an overpriced cup of ice before following her into the darkened theater. They had arrived before the trailers and so he wasn’t surprised to see a fairly empty theater. They took seats toward the back out of habit, (near the exits, less likely to attract attention).

“So, just a normal date?” he asked, leaning the tub of popcorn her way. She crossed her bare legs, the hem of her skirt suddenly the most frustrating sight because he couldn’t slip his hand underneath.

“You don’t sound convinced, Rogers?” she raised an eyebrow.

“It’s just that I’ve never been on a normal date, Natasha,” he added, watching as an elderly couple shuffled in, both wearing matching rain coats. Steve realized he was being unfair. It really shouldn’t have been so farfetched and why did he need definitions anyway? Whatever it was that they had was enough.

“I haven’t either,” she admitted, a flash of sobriety cutting through the camp and pretense, before sipping on her straw. He cleared his throat because this was not the kind of sweet and awkward he had come to anticipate in any alone time with Natasha, even if it was exactly the kind of thing someone would say on a normal date.

As the lights dimmed in the near-empty theater, he thought about how sad and maybe perfect it really was that neither of them had ever been afforded anything that would fit the definition of “a love life”. Of course she didn’t date. Not unless the end game was her knife in someone’s back. Maybe playing cards and having sex in safe houses amidst piles of gauze and cotton balls was the closest to dating that either of them would ever have. Not only was he unfair for building up expectations but he was also an asshole.

They watched as the screen flashed to an old lady in a long skirt and tan support stockings peddling alongside a picket fence, a bushel of purple lilies in the bicycle basket (check that off the old-lady movie trope bingo list). Steve decided to enjoy it for what it was, sitting back in his seat and grabbing some popcorn.

It was during the scene in which Dame Judi Dench and an younger actor were discussing pie that everything fit together, all of the tells and the clues. He’d actually been paying attention to the storyline when he realized Natasha was no longer sitting next to him, but rather that she’d slid to the floor.

“Natasha?” he whispered, putting the popcorn on the floor so that he could lean down. “What? Did you lose something?”

He could just barely make out the mischievous smile that told him she was one hundred percent making her way in between his legs on purpose, just the sight of her silhouette making him hard.

“Natasha,” he repeated, nodding toward the couple a few rows in front of them. “What…”

She pulled herself up so that she was at level with his face, her hands squeezing his thighs. A feeling of panic, pins and needles in his gut, rose up as she leaned to whisper in his ear, “making out in a movie theater is normal, Rogers…”

 _“What is on your sexual bucket list?”_ she’d asked him once. His heart pounded as his eyes darted around because Natasha Romanoff unzipping his jeans in a movie theater while Judi Dench drank tea was something he had not even thought to consider putting on his list. Jumping as she pulled his cock out, he gripped the armrests and hoped this wouldn’t result in them both getting arrested.

One thing he appreciated about Natasha, especially in that moment, was that she didn’t play around. No gentle kisses and soft warm-up strokes, not then. He was exposed and then he wasn’t, her mouth generously taking him in to the point that he could feel hot little bursts of air escaping her nose.

As Natasha began the glorious task of licking and sucking, he said a silent prayer of thanks for how wonderfully wet her mouth was, for the way in which she glanced up at him occasionally as she bobbed her head up and down the length of his dick, for the little bit of pressure she expertly applied to the head with her tongue…

“Jesus,” he mumbled as her teeth grazed his skin. He could feel her smiling below him, the humor in it taking the edge off just a bit. Just as she was switching tactics, gripping him in one hand while tracing the veins of his cock with her tongue, laughter from the other moviegoers jolted him again back to earth. Apparently, someone on the big screen had just been pushed into a swimming pool.

 _We are going to get caught,_ he mentally repeated even as he could feel himself start to throb against Natasha’s palate. He tentatively touched her hair, if only to communicate that she had made her point and that they could finish this conversation at home, when she gave a small moan, the vibrations enough that he nearly cursed.

“Nat…tasha…” he closed his eyes, his hips greedily bucking into her mouth as if that would enable him to have just a little more. She was relentless, as always, not even breaking her rhythm when he used any sign he could think of to quietly signal that he was going to come. Everything seemed faster and harder and then he was sure he was having a seizure, little pulses of electricity coursing through his veins as he finished.

God bless her, she took it all, the feel of her throat as she swallowed driving him crazier than he would have thought possible. And then, just as the dark theater was filled with old lady cackles and big band music, she was licking him clean before moving back to her seat. He watched in awe as she took another sip of soda, again crossing her legs as if she hadn’t just drained him of any possible energy and thought that might otherwise be devoted to obsessing over the title for their relationship.

“You two make such a sweet couple,” the old man tipped his hat as the lights came back on, trudging past with his wife on his arm.

“Well, we can only hope to be as lovely as you two one day,” Natasha grinned, grabbing onto Steve’s arm as if in imitation. All that Steve could do was smile and nod, clutching the bucket of popcorn as though it was suddenly something sacred and precious.

For once, he didn’t want to ask her to explain, his mind preoccupied with the need to take her somewhere quiet and work through all of the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Leaving their refreshments behind, he grabbed her arm and led her to the doors.

Scanning the lobby for the nearest exit or dark corner or anywhere, he breathed a quick sigh of relief that all two of the vacant theater’s employees were standing at the concession register counting change. As he pulled her into the restroom across the hall, his mind clicked on just why she’d chosen a hole in the wall movie theater.

She _knew_. She knew any chance of being caught would be minimized if they went somewhere obscure. That smug expression on her face as he pushed her into the handi-cap stall and buried his hands deep in her hair so that he could kiss her with the kind of power that set precedents.

“Is this what you’d call a normal date?” he asked as he reached under her skirt. No panties. He wondered just how long she’d been planning this whole thing and then he wondered if she ever wore underwear around him at all.

“Steve from Brooklyn. Don’t you think he’d like to have his girlfriend give him the best blow job of his life in a movie theater?”

_Girlfriend. She said “girlfriend”._

“Definitely the best movie I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said in all seriousness as he ran his fingers along her cunt. Natasha cried out and he shook his head.

“I don’t think that door is locked,” he reminded her. Grabbing his shoulders, Natasha nodded and bit her lip, her body trembling as he did his damndest to return the favor.

“I think you’d better fuck me now, Rogers,” she growled, possibly reading his mind. He nodded and spun her around so that she was pressed against the door, the rattle of their weight on the partition spurring his excitement.

Making love to Natasha Romanoff with his pants around his ankles as she bit her hand in order to stay silent, the walls of their stall shaking slightly as he picked up speed. He decided that he could probably never fully comprehend how intuitive she was, how she had figured out what his fantasies were even before he did.

And then she did something magical. She moved so that he had to pull out, a cruel and disorienting gesture, before turning so that her back was against the wall. Without any further communication, he understood and lifted her up, a move that he decided the serum was created for. Holding her in his arms, those heels once again pressed into his skin, he mentally thanked Dr. Erskine for all of his contributions to science.

It was her eyes, dark and full of emotion, that pushed him over the edge. Something in her expression told him that this was authentic. That she wasn’t playing mind games with him or trying to cheat, and that the entire evening thus far had been authentic.

“Don’t laugh but I love you,” he said, tripping over the words and kicking himself for telling her those words while she was spasming around him. Natasha let out a small gasp, her face flushed, before responding by reaching for his neck, her mouth communicating what he hoped was at least acceptance as she kissed him.

“Don’t laugh but I know,” she told him as he came, his forehead resting against hers.

It was later that night, long after they’d gone back to his apartment for thirds and fourths, when he was holding her against him underneath the duvet, that she confirmed all of his hopes.

“My bucket list,” she said quietly as she played with his fingers absentmindedly.

“Anything you want…” he kissed her shoulder.

“Was to hear someone say that he loved me during sex and mean it.”

“I mean it,” he said, repeating his declaration. “I love you.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I loved you back?”

He shifted to look her in the eyes, noting the vulnerability and slivers of fear in her expression.

“I’d be a fool not to.”

 


End file.
